Nonstop Hockey Love
by pennylayne
Summary: How the Bash Brothers went from hating each other to being best friends... or perhaps more. It's my first MD fic, be nice please!


I can't believe we ended up here. A year ago, we were the worst hockey team in the history of mankind, and now here we are, standing on the ice of some huge arena in Los Angeles, getting ready to become Team USA for the Junior Goodwill Games. I don't even know how this happened. Really, I don't know how _I_ got here, seeing as I'm not exactly the greatest skater or player in the world – I'm more suited for football than hockey – and to put it bluntly, I _so _don't belong here.

Los Angeles is so far from Minneapolis – and not just in miles. Everybody here is so... pretty. I mean, we've got the occasional pretty girl in Minnesota, but every girl here is better-looking than the last. Even the _guys_ are pretty here. I didn't even think that was possible, pretty guys.

But one of them is standing right in front of me.

There's no way this kid could possibly be a hockey player. Sure, he's built like one – I mean _really_ built like one – he's huge. Tall, big arms, looks like he's really strong. His legs are all muscle-y and he looks good on his skates. But like I said, he's _pretty_. His skin is all smooth and there isn't even a little bit of a bend in his nose. His teeth are perfect and white and straight and don't look like they've been knocked out or replaced or even worked on. His face is perfect. Flawless. I doubt it's ever even met a puck.

He's even got this curly, pretty-boy hair that's kind of floppy and it looks soft and – why am I spending so much time looking at him? Guys don't look at other guys like this, don't waste their time thinking about their hair or their faces or their nice smiles. Well, maybe they do here in LA, butwe sure as hell don't in Minnesota... though I seem to be doing it more and more lately.

And I still can't stop watching him.

"Don't you know that everything's on fire!" He wails along with his headphones as he flies around on the ice, using his stick as a replacement for a guitar. He throws that tiny little Asian kid around, plopping him down on top of the goal net, like he's tough, and I can see his already bulging muscles flex with every move he makes.

He makes me sick.

"Who's this guy think he is?" I ask no one in particular, rolling my eyes. This season is going to _suck_.

--

"Hey, Fulton," Coach Bombay calls, motioning me over. "C'mere, there's something I want to talk to you about."

I walk over to where he's standing, by the bleachers. "What's up, Coach?"

He nods at the six-foot-plus pretty-boy goon standing beside him. "This is Dean Portman. He's joining us from Chicago. Dean, this is Fulton Reed, one of the original Ducks."

Mr. Tough Guy grunts at me, giving a little nod. I do nothing but glare at him. We haven't said a word to each other (well, except for an argument before practice, but that doesn't count because everybody was screaming at everybody else and no one could hear anything anybody was saying) and I already hate him. Dean Portman, official new bane of my existence. And to think, it used to be varsity cheerleaders.

"Fulton, Dean is going to be your roommate."

Oh, shit.

Coach walks off, leaving this walking brick wall and me to stand and glare at each other. He's trying to intimidate me with his stupid little sneer, but nobody – and I mean _nobody_ – scares Fulton Reed. I'm the roughest, toughest player on the Ducks, and everybody knows that. I strike fear into the hearts of enforcers and goalies alike.

"I got dibs on the top bunk, squirt," Portman says, then pushes me out of his way so I fall onto the bleachers and he swaggers off toward the locker room. Where the hell did I get a word like 'swagger?' Well, that's what guys like this do. They swagger. Like they're fucking John Wayne or something.

I swear to God, I'm going to kill this kid before the games are over.

--

Miss MacKay, the team tutor, has decided that we aren't going to have class in the classroom today, we're all going to sit out by the lake like a bunch of hippies or something. So now we're all gathered in a big circle on the grass with the bugs and the birds and the sun. The sun's in my face no matter where I sit or which way I turn my head, and that pisses me off. Plus it's hot. I hate the heat. It doesn't get this hot in Minnesota. I start to sweat, which only aggravates me more, but there's nothing I can do about it so I just lean back on my hands and sulk.

Portman is sitting across the circle from me and he keeps looking at me. He always looks at me. It's like he expects something from me. I don't know what the hell he wants, I wish he would just stop looking at me. With those stupid brown eyes that have the little hints of red in them and – stop it, Fulton.

"Okay," Miss MacKay says, standing in the middle of the circle and steepling her fingers. "Now that everybody's here, we can get started." She smiles a little and looks around at all of us. "How do you guys like it out here? I think it's much better than some stuffy old classroom. The lake is so pretty. It's kind of relaxing, don't you think?"

"It's hot," I mutter, pulling at a few blades of grass as I look up at Miss MacKay and her teacher smile. I hated school to begin with, but this is just going to be too much. If I have to deal with Portman _and_ this little ball of sunshine every day for class, I'm just going to have to off myself. Seriously.

"Well, today, we have science, so we'll start out with a few basic questions. Let's see... can anybody tell me what our bodies are made mostly of?"

I'm pretty sure I know the answer, but I'm not positive, so I'll just let someone else get this one. Luckily, a hand shoots up behind Miss MacKay and she turns. "Yes, Dean."

Dean smirks cockily, jutting his chin out a little bit as he says, "Muscle." Then he flexes his huge biceps and makes me want to hurl a little bit.

Now, I'm not exactly Einstein or anything, but I _know_ that's not right.

Miss MacKay gives him that sympathetic little smile that every teacher seems to be able to do, and then shakes her head. "That's a really good guess, Dean, but actually, no. Anybody else think they know the answer?"

I raise my hand a little bit. "Um... water?"

Across the circle, Portman scoffs. "Yeah, right."

"What's your damage now, Portman?"

He glares at me. "We aren't made of water. We can't be. It's not possible... how would we stand up?"

"We are too made of water," I say, rolling my eyes. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

"Are not."

"Well, maybe not you, considering you're nothing but meat from the brain down."

Portman's getting up and looks like he's ready to kill me. "I'm gonna kick your ass, Reed."

"I'd like to see you try." I push up off the ground and square my shoulders, ready to fight.

Portman starts stalking towards me and I'm ready to start saying goodbye to my nose and probably a few of my teeth before Miss MacKay wedges herself between us, looking thoroughly pissed. "Boys! Cool it. This is totally unacceptable. Both of you sit down, and I want you two to stay here after class and talk to me."

Defeated, we plop back down in our spots and spend the rest of the class period staring daggers at one another.

We're still sulking when everybody else gets up and leaves. Miss MacKay sighs and stands between us. "Boys. You are teammates. You have to act like teammates." She shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. "What is going on between you two?"

"He's an asshole," I say, nodding towards Dean.

"And he's a big, fat pain in my ass," Portman shoots back.

"Well, you're just going to have to deal with each other. You were both way out of line today. I can't have that kind of behavior in my class, and it really can't happen on the ice. Pulling stuff like that will get you thrown out of the game in no time."

"Sorry, Miss MacKay," we say in unison, staring down at the grass underneath us.

"Sorry isn't going to cut it, guys. Look, you don't have to like each other, but you do have to cooperate. You have to learn to tolerate one another. You have to learn to work together. So that's what you're going to do."

"What?" Dean asks, cocking his head to the side. He looks a little bit like a puppy. It's kind of cute, actually. Wait... what?

"You're going to work together. On an essay on the importance of teamwork."

I groan. I hate writing; I'm simply no good at it. "When are we supposed to hand it in?"

"I want it by the end of the day tomorrow."

Dean and I both look at her in shock. "But... Miss MacKay," Portman says, "when are we s'posed to _do_ it? We got practice tonight!"

Miss MacKay smirks at us. It's not a good look. It actually sends chills down my spine. "Exactly."

"What?" I am _so_ confused right now.

"You'll both spend practice in the penalty box, doing your essay. If you finish it before practice is over, then you can get out and join. But if not, you'll be stuck. Three hundred words, and spelling counts, so find someone to check it for you." She looks at her watch. "Now go. You don't want to be late for practice." And with that, she turns her back to us and starts picking up her stuff.

I stand up, shake grass off of myself, and head toward the dorms. Portman follows close behind me, muttering to himself. "This is such bullshit," he says, kicking at a rock and sending it flying, just barely missing my leg.

"Watch it, Rambo," I snap, and he sneers at me as he passes and heads into the building.

Yeah, this would be me not looking forward to practice.

--

"So, we might as well start this stupid thing and get it over with. What's so important about teamwork?" I lean back against the back wall of the penalty box, with a notebook on my lap. Tapping my pen against the paper, I look over at Dean, and he shrugs.

"I dunno," he says, leaning his elbows against his knees. He's silent for a moment, watching everybody else skate around and smirking as Goldberg falls yet again, but then all of a sudden he turns to me. "I guess, without it, all you got is a bunch of people playing by themselves. And nobody can win if they're just playing by themselves, 'cuz you can't make it from one goal to the other without passing the puck to somebody else. But I guess if you work together, y'know, as a team, you can pass the puck and score a goal, or whatever."

"Wow." I look at him, still staring out at the ice. You wouldn't expect someone with a head that thick to be profound, but there you go.

"Yeah, that sounds kinda fruity and girlie. Don't use it."

"Made sense to me." I shrug and start writing.

The essay is done faster than I would've expected. I thought we'd miss the whole practice and then have to keep working halfway through the night, but we're done with forty-five minutes of practice left.

Coach Bombay lets us out onto the ice for a scrimmage, and just as I'm about to take my shot (which I'm pretty sure I can make given where I'm standing) when Portman comes sweeping in from the left and slams me up against the wall. He stands there for a moment, pinning me between the human version of the Great Wall of China and the glass, and I can feel his breath passing from underneath his helmet. I can't help but wonder what this would feel like, if it would be any different, if our bodies weren't separated by about two feet of plastic and padding...

I scowl at Portman, angry at him for the thoughts that he's putting into my head. "You're on _my_ team, Portman, what the hell do you think you're doing?" I shove him away and he falls, sliding back a couple feet on his perky little ass.

"I was just..."

"You don't ambush your own fucking teammate! Are you retarded or something?"

"But they were--"

"You made me miss a perfect shot! Thanks a lot, assjack!"

This seems to have touched a nerve. Portman's eyes flash at me and he stands up, throwing his stick down with a loud _crack_ onto the ice. He pulls his helmet and gloves off and steps toward me. His face is all red and I'm pretty sure I have now reached the end of my life.

"I'm so fucking sick of you, Reed," he says, and shoves me against the wall again, grabbing onto the front of my jersey with one hand. He rips my helmet off with the other and throws it behind him, and I begin absolving my sins as he makes a fist and cocks his arm back.

I hear a whistle blow and we turn our heads to see Coach Bombay skating over to us. "Portman! Reed!" He shouts from halfway down the rink. "What's going on over here?"

"He started it," I say, hoping the cold sweat that's trickling down my spine doesn't start to show on my face. Adrenaline, I swear.

Portman gets an indignant look on his face and slowly lets go of my jersey. "I was just trying to keep him from getting cold-cocked by Charlie."

"And I can see how ramming your fist into his face and shoving one another around is part of the rescue effort." Coach stops beside us and shakes his head. "I'm really tired of the two of you always going at one another. You both need to cool off. I want you to go back to the locker room and I don't want to see you at another practice until you've settled your differences. You're really starting to piss me off." We just stand and stare at him, dumbfounded. "I mean it, boys, go!"

We trudge into the locker room and I stand in the middle of the aisle between the lockers, crossing my arms over my chest. "This is all your fault."

"_My_ fault? How is it my fault?" Portman pulls his jersey and pads off, then sheds his sweaty undershirt. I've never taken a good look at him with his shirt off, which is weird, considering how often he's disrobed in front of me. The guy has no shame. Not that I'm complaining. Though I should be, what the hell? I'm admiring a topless _guy_!

"You're the one who ambushed me. You always do stupid shit like that." Feeling the heat and weight of my own pads, I pull them off and throw them into my locker.

"Conway was coming up behind you and he wasn't slowing down!"

"And just what kind of damage could Charlie do to me? I mean, the most he could do is maybe give me a bruise!" I sigh and tug my undershirt over my head and toss it limply on top of my pads.

Dean's lower lip sticks out for just a moment. "Why are you always like this?"

I roll my eyes. "Like what?"

"Such an asshole. Like you've got something to prove."

"I got nothing to prove." I arch an eyebrow at him. "Do you?"

"Don't turn this around on me, Fulton."

"At least I don't hide behind my muscles. I don't need people to be afraid of me."

"Then why do you try so hard to make people afraid of you?" Dean crosses his arms over his beautifully sculpted... I mean, his chest, and stares at me.

"Why do you?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, you're so annoying!" Portman pushes me up against a locker and glares at me. Our chests are touching and it's a feeling that I like and I hate that I like. "Why can't you just shut up?"

He stares into my eyes, and even with all the anger flaring up in his eyes, I swear there's something a little soft and sad in them. I stay silent for a moment, and then, without warning to myself or to Dean, I wrap my arm around his shoulders and, fisting a hand in that curly pretty-boy hair, I press my lips to his.

I start to pull away and brace myself to lose most of my teeth and probably eighty percent of the cartilage in my nose, but what's more shocking than the feeling of Dean's fist in my face is the fact that it doesn't end up there. In fact, to my surprise, he's kissing me back. He leans against me and I can feel all the tension, probably several years' worth, leave his body. And the crazy part is, all my muscles relax, too.

Maybe this is what we both needed, because I have a feeling there aren't going to be any more fights between us.


End file.
